


In from the Cold

by alutiv



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Three-Flat Problem, Winterlock Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Until the phone call summoning him here, it had been the most pleasant Christmas Greg could recall.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kenopsia (indie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/gifts).



> For kenopsia, who said, “ I'm open to anything, really, as long as someone gets kissed on the nose.”
> 
> My thanks to 3littleowls and anarfea for their beta-reading skills and _strong encouragement_ to _get writing_ , to Otter & CR2 for the Three-Flat Problem format, and to ShinySherlock for putting this exchange together.

Digging his gloved hands deep into his pockets, Greg squeezes his eyes shut and mutters a curse into his scarf. He would not be at all surprised to find ice crystals forming on the other side of the soft fabric. There is a nudge at his bicep, and he opens his eyes to see John standing next to him, holding out a disposable cup with steam rising from it. 

“You look like you could use this.” He looks irritatingly comfortable, despite the reddening across his cheeks and nose, and Greg wonders just how many jumpers he’s got on under his Haversack coat. 

“Ta,” Greg says, smiling gratefully before downing the coffee in quick gulps, not really caring that he’s scalding his tongue and throat. He crushes the empty cup in his hand and burrows back into his scarf. 

Sherlock is practically prancing along the frozen edge of the Thames, evidently impervious to the slush soaking into those ridiculously expensive leather shoes. Greg’s toes ache just watching. He thinks longingly of the comfortable sofa and giant telly in Mycroft’s media room, where he had rather hoped to be curled up this evening with the Doctor Who special and something warm to drink. Instead, he’s been called out to a crime scene, because the Christmas season hasn’t slowed down London’s murderers at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Until the phone call summoning him here, it had been the most pleasant Christmas Greg could recall. Waking in a tangle of Mycroft’s long limbs and soft sheets, then a leisurely breakfast and an exchange of gifts. After agonizing for weeks over how the tie he’d purchased would be received, he’d have to admit it had been a bit gratifying catching the flash of nervousness in Mycroft’s eyes as he handed over his own immaculately wrapped gift. 

“…I didn’t think anyone _could_ be less observant than Anderson, but clearly it's possible. Are you even listening to me, Godfrey?” 

Frigid air sears his lungs, and he growls, “ _Greg_.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and whirls away, John smiling apologetically in his wake. 

“You look knackered,” Donovan says, laying a hand on his arm. “We’ve got this. Get out of here.” 

“But —“ 

“Nope. Go.” She pushes him away. 

He steps back. His foot slides over ice, and time slows. For an interminable moment, he knows he’s about to crash to the ground, but then, he isn’t falling. He’s standing upright. Firm, gentle hands are steadying him. Balance regained, he looks from the long fingers wrapped around his elbow up into the concerned eyes of Mycroft Holmes. 

Greg lets himself be led to the waiting car, waving weakly in response to Donovan’s shouted, “Night, boss!”


	3. Chapter 3

Inside the car, it’s deliciously warm. Greg sinks into the upholstery, eyes falling closed. He fumbles at the buttons of his coat, hands clumsy with cold despite his gloves. Mycroft catches his wrist, and Greg stills. 

Fingertips brush across his forehead and trace his eyebrows, a hot trail over his skin. 

“You’re half-frozen, Gregory.” Soft-voiced admonishment, but Greg hears the worry underneath. 

“Not on purpose,” Greg grumbles. “The scarf helped.” 

Mycroft hums, still stroking Greg’s face. He caresses the shell of Greg’s ear and under his jaw, smoothing over stubble. A single fingertip trails over Greg’s lips, chapped from the cold air, and Mycroft _tsks_ softly, his breath warm on Greg’s cheek. 

Greg cracks one eye half-open. Mycroft is peering at him, mere inches from his face. The first time Greg caught Mycroft studying him like this, he nearly jumped out of his skin, but he knows now it’s something Mycroft does whenever he thinks he can get away with it. Peering through his lashes, Greg can’t resist the impulse to dart forward and press a kiss to the tip of Mycroft’s nose. He opens his eyes fully, and the sight of Mycroft completely puzzled makes him grin. 

Mycroft touches his fingers to his nose. “You kissed my nose.” 

Oh, a puzzled look _and_ stating the obvious. It really _is_ Christmas.


End file.
